#how to unsettle the function

[nightmarefuele]

just watched a video called "my teeth" which is exactly how it sounds & a comment read "this is a sign for you to give resident evil a break"

hush. don't tell them

[simplyender]

spiderpeople that could defeat spot first try:

1. spider-ham (cartoon logic dictates that he can just pick up the holes)

2. sun-spider (disabled solidarity. would probably get spot to come to the realization that hes 100% disabled and be empathetic about it)

3. spider-punk (would explain that a majority of spots problems originate from the shitty system hes in and that capitalism is the problem, not miles)

[deathbypufferfish]

I created some art today to visualize how my functional seizure auras feel to me. For those who don't know, some people (not all), get a feeling before they have a seizure.

If you look it up on Google one of the descriptions is "indescribable feeling". So I thought I'd visualize this. I started it while I was still in an aura as well. It's a very distressing feeling, so it felt good to paint it out.

[spilling-blood]

After getting over Carla after 8 years I thought this is it, while it will always hold a special place in my heart, and Yui is still queen, my brain may finally be over diabolik lovers, because I may like them but I don't feel so strongly about Reiji, Shu, or Shin.

What I didn't consider was my brain deciding it didn't like having a space not filled by a fictional person who terrifies us yet we have inexplicably latched onto and grown to love, and making me dip my toes in with Azusa.

[quadrantadvisor]

Even after learning their secret identities, the hero community always insisted that there was something inhuman about the bats. No one doubted that their intensive training had a lot to do with it, but it never quite explained how they could evade a Kryptonian's super senses, how they could melt into shadows, how they could function so long with little food, little rest, little oxygen if need be. Most people dismissed their uneasy feelings, but there was something strange about the bats, something uncanny, something that made them different from the arrows and other vanilla human members. And, slowly enough that no one really noticed, it was getting stronger.

Until one day, during a diplomatic meeting with the ruler of the Infinite Realms, when High King Phantom turned to Batman and his brood and literally brightened. "Oh! I didn't know you had liminal members!"

Or: through a variety of factors (proximity to death, their own death/near death experiences, exposure to the Lazarus Pits, the favor of Lady Gotham, immersion in Gotham's own cursed ambient ectoplasm, being a close knit group who continued to expose eachother, etc.) the batfamily have been becoming liminal/ecto-contaminated without noticing. The powers they're developing have been subtle, and align with the skills they expect to have, so no one brought it up when they started being able to hold their breath beyond human limitations, or got so sneaky that they literally seemed invisible, or had a lucky miss when they expected a bullet to go right through them. And they always exuded an unsettling aura of fear, so no one else thought anything was out of the ordinary either. By the time they meet Danny, Gotham counts as one of the most fiercely defended ghost haunts on the planet, with so many territorial liminals patrolling the streets.

[theartisticintrovert]

Commission Me! (Regular | Furry)

terrible news, everyone: mae has been petrified by a medusa. therefore, new character. remember kai? edgy warlock necromancer boy? yeah. decided to make him about 90% more on board with what the hags are up to, and now he's an unhinged death cleric lmaO

i will say though, despite his 2 madness levels, he is surprisingly well adjusted for someone raised by hags for 13 years! also thanks again to @toriistorii for being excellent and letting me use my "it would be So Cool" ideas. this go around, it was "hey can i make a tattoo into a cleric focus?? it's not on a shield but it's TECHNICALLY prominently displayed as an emblem....."

verdict was yes, as long as it's not covered! so....forearm tattoo! [boogies quietly] it's actually sick as hell tbh i need to stop making tattoos for characters that i want to get irl im too broke for this nonsense. it's a carrion crow skull on top of an azalea flower, attached to a kusarigama. did you know that azaleas are actually SUPER poisonous, to the point where sending someone a bouquet of them in a black vase was a really well known death threat back in the day? thought that was a fun fact :3c

[mariasont]

SLIDE NUMBER 42

spencer struggles to stay focused during his FBI seminar after watching you accept another man's phone number

pairings: spencer reid x shy!reader warnings: post prison spencer, fem reader, fluffy fluff, pre-relationship mutual pining, jealousy, hot people who don't know they're hot, reader is so oblivious wc: 2.4k request: here

His speech is going fine. Good even, by technical standards. Solid pacing, no detectable tremor in his voice, and the audience seems engaged, or at least polite enough to fake it.

No eyes have glazed into vacant stares of boredom, no one has made sudden exits conveniently coinciding with his most critical points. Someone even laughed at his heuristics joke. Sure, that laugh might have stemmed from social obligation rather than genuine amusement, but Spencer’s ego isn’t picky. Validation is validation, however pitiful its origins.

After a hundred (give or take, but who’s counting? Certainly not him anymore) FBI seminars, public speaking has downgraded itself from gut-twisting terror to something more akin to low-level tinnitus. Persistent, yes, but easily ignored if he doesn’t focus on it.

Today, though, there’s a blemish in his confidence, a nearly imperceptible fissure disrupting an otherwise flawless delivery, and annoyingly, he knows exactly what’s causing it.

Or rather, who. 

It would be easy, tempting, even, to attribute it to jet lag or his questionable decision to skip breakfast, despite knowing precisely how much glucose his brain demands to function optimally.

It’s approximately 130 grams daily, for the record.

But under close examination, these excuses collapse.

His mouth dutifully churns out the familiar concepts — cognitive shortcuts, behavioral reinforcement, and a half-dozen other psychological principles he could probably recite even if heavily sedated.

His eyes, though, are less disciplined.

Spencer no longer pretends he isn’t looking for you. Plausible deniability lost its appeal around the hundredth time, so now he’s squarely planted in the acceptance stage, routinely scanning briefing rooms, glancing down the jet aisle, even sweeping through crowded streets that realistically hold zero probability of your sudden appearance.

Stranger things have happened though.

Your usual chair, predictably front and center, has been taken by someone else. The disruption alone unsettles him, an absurd reaction, he knows, considering the concept of assigned seating vanished after high school.

But worse, far worse, your new seat, slightly further back to the left, is paired closely with a stranger. A male. A male stranger.

Did he mention that?

From this distance, Spencer reads you the way he would scrutinize grainy case footage — frame by frame, microexpression after microexpression. You sit poised, shoulders relaxed in a way that seems sincere, fingers neatly intertwined in practiced, polite calm. The hesitant half-smile on your face is one he’s memorized by now, the kind you deploy when responses fail you but courtesy remains compulsory. 

There’s nothing outwardly troubling. No anxious shifts, no rapid blinking patterns, no unconscious signals suggesting underlying distress. And the man beside you remains scrupulously neutral, displaying no signs of threat or territorial intent. No encroaching hand, no aggressive hand over your chair.

Textbook respectful. Harmless, even.

Spencer hates him, regardless.

Maybe hate is a strong word. Spencer is self-aware enough to admit that. He’s nothing if not precise with language, after all. But the irritation brewing in his chest feels warranted, even if it’s inconvenient and flagrantly unprofessional. 

He should be paying attention to his own presentation, should be demonstrating at least a shred of respect for the material, and especially for the painstaking work you poured into it. 

Last Thursday alone, you spent two entire hours rearranging his deck into a visual narrative.

He had fun watching as you tensed each time his hand brushed yours or whenever he leaned a fraction too close, your shoulders tightening in a way he mentally filed under adorably flustered.

He also (less fun) watched you agonize over font choices as though the fate of the world depended on serif or sans-serif, and the way you had gotten so worked up trying to pick between two indistinguishable shades of blue. 

Eventually, he broke. Softly, half-laughing, he told you, it doesn’t matter which one, I’ll love it regardless because you picked it.

He could almost hear your internal plea for the earth to kindly intervene and swallow you whole. And as usual, Spencer pretended he saw nothing, politely glossing over the obvious.

It had, after all, become his speciality — noticing everything about you and pretending he didn’t.

His eyes focus back on you, in the present to see that there’s a napkin involved with the stranger, accompanied by a ballpoint pen scratching digits hastily onto the flimsy, coffee-stained paper, folded once before sliding across the table.

You accept it without hesitation, slipping it beneath your fingers. To any else, the exchange would seem mundane. And maybe it genuinely is mundane.

Maybe people pass you phone numbers all the time and Spencer’s just blind to it, trapped comfortably back in plausible deniability. 

And honestly, why wouldn’t this be a regular occurrence? He should’ve considered this months ago. From a purely observational standpoint, you’ve practically designed to attract attention. Intelligent. Kind. Beautiful. Very beautiful in a soft, disarming way that defies simple categorization.

He expends enormous effort pretending your very existence doesn’t accelerate his heart-rate into concerning ranges. It’s possible that other, saner men don’t waste precious energy on such fruitless, exhausting self-deception.

Spencer blinks slowly, disoriented by the sudden wave of heat climbing uninvited from beneath his collar. The fabric feels restrictive, as though actively tightening, trying to suffocate him purely out of spite.

For the life of him, he can’t remember which slide he’s on, or even if the current slide bears any relation to the words he was previously speaking. His pointer hand hovers mid-gesture, awkwardly frozen.

There’s a distracting ringing in his ears — no, he corrects himself, not ringing.

Silence.

His own silence stretching across the room as he mentally scrambles to pinpoint exactly when he stopped talking. Judging from the expectant stares, probably mid-sentence.

Your eyes find his almost instantly, brows pinched the tiniest bit, like you’re puzzled but trying not to be disrespectful about it. Spencer can feel the sweat prickling beneath his shirt.

But then you smile and give him a thumbs up.

Big and bright and encouraging like you’re trying to telepathically remind him that he’s doing great, as if this is only a mild, forgivable stumble from a nervous academic tripped up by nothing more serious than transition slide number 42.

It’s not funny. He tells himself that with conviction. But there’s some part of him that wants to laugh anyway, if only to release the pressure building inside him.

Instead, he settles for a restrained nod, stretches a smile over clenched teeth, pretends it feels natural then regains his place in the presentation.

Guilt rushes in on the tail end of his anger (anger? jealousy? — the terminology feels suspiciously accurate, but labeling it as so feels premature and vaguely terrifying). He’s uncertain what specific transgression triggered this, but his nervous system apparently feels apologies are overdue, regardless.

Possibly because his thoughts are increasingly heading into Neanderthal territory with every look the man gives you.

Thankfully around halfway, maybe just past that mark, the nameless man beside you rises. It’s discreet, he simply leans in toward you, exchanges some hushed, unintelligible words, then slips away.

The second the chair beside you empties though, that pressure in his chest loosens like a long-held muscle finally unclenched. Like oxygen flooding back into a room that had been vacuum-sealed.

Spencer rushes through his concluding remarks, murmuring a perfunctory thanks to the audience and moves swiftly off the stage.

No handshakes, no small talk, no waiting around to see if anyone has further questions. Frankly, he doesn’t have the bandwidth to pretend he cares.

His mind is fixated solely on you, his priority laser-focused on bridging the gap he’s spent the past hour actively trying not to acknowledge, intent on reaching you first before anyone else gets the chance.

You can’t help yourself from smiling the instant he comes into view, then immediately worry that it’s too much smile, a full wattage beam reserved for grander occasions than a simple post-presentation hello.

But then again, this is Spencer.

Spencer, who just minutes ago had half the room on the edge of their seats, eyes round with wonder, absorbing each detail like children watching a magic trick unfold.

You’re fairly certain he would appreciate that comparison.

“You were incredible,” you say, feeling a little winded by your own excitement. Hopefully, that accounts for the weird expression you’re pretty sure is plastered all over your face. “Seriously, you sounded so confident, and that one part, the twins with the shared delusion? You could hear everyone holding their breath.”

Spencer holds your gaze, expression carefully blank, as if he’s momentarily forgotten how to react. He finally swallows, glancing downward briefly before forcing his eyes back to yours. 

“Thanks,” he says, “to tell you the truth, it felt a bit… off.”

“Really?” you blurt out. “It was probably the slides, honestly. I knew I should’ve picked the darker blue for the headers. The light blue looked fine on my laptop, but projected up there it looked way too… fluorescent. Sorry if it threw you off, or you know, temporarily damaged your retinas.”

His lips curve into something resembling a smile, but there’s a noticeable emptiness behind it, a shadow of the quietly affection grin he saves for Garcia when she insists on inventing some silly nickname for him, or that gently softened look he gives you when you ask him to double-check emails you’re irrationally convinced you wrote incorrectly.

This one feels different. More distant, maybe.

Was that too much? Did you overshoot the tone? Did you mistake his pause for an opening and trample right through it? Did the slides really throw him off? You don’t know, but your mouth is already moving again.

“I mean, no one probably even noticed the color thing. I just… I did. Not that it mattered. The content was what people were paying attention to. Your content, not mine, obviously. Just — sorry, I —”

“The slides were perfect,” he cuts in, shaking his head. “Really, thank you for putting them together.”

Warmth blooms aggressively across your cheeks, spreading upward to your ears until you’re positive they must be visibly burning.

You nod vigorously, maybe too much so, because words seem hazardous at this point. You’re 90% sure the only sound you would make is some kind of mouse-adjacent squeak.

He nods toward the row of now-empty chairs.

“Next time, would you mind sitting a bit closer?” he asks. “If there’s a technical glitch, having you close by could save me from another awkward pause.”

“I was planning to.” You let out a laugh, ducking your head. “But someone got there first and I thought it’d be weird if I challenged them to a duel or something.”

He laughs at that and your heart reacts accordingly.

“Tell you what,” he says, “next time I’ll reserve your seat myself. No need to resort to sword fights on my behalf.”

A chair scrapes violently a few feet away, loud enough to startle you mid-nod. You flinch, pivot slightly, and your purse, which was balanced precariously on the back of your chair, swings off and to the floor. 

Lip balm tubes, scattered pens, mint wrappers, crumbled receipts, and a pitiful handful of coins erupt from the bag like tiny projectiles, landing messily at Spencer’s feet.

You’re halfway through an apology that’s shaping up to be spectacularly frantic when he crouches beside you.

“It’s fine —” he reassures, patiently herding your scattered belongings until his hand stops dead, hovering oddly over something.

A folded napkin. He picks it up gently, like he’s trying not to crumple it, and you immediately recognize it, the paper, the stupid casual tilt of the handwriting. The guy’s phone number paired with an invitation for coffee or drinks or something similarly forgettable.

Honestly, you barely registered it at the time, dismissed it entirely after a polite smile and obligatory nod. It meant nothing then. It means even less now. 

Your brain lurches, caught in a panicked tug-of-war between explaining yourself, pretending nothing happened, or diving headfirst into an apology (your well-worn, anxiety-ridden default).

Because it all suddenly feels painfully amateurish, unbelievably unprofessional, especially in the relentless spotlight of being the newest face, the eager-to-please media liaison who occasionally gets mistaken for someone’s assistant or coffee-fetcher at least twice per conference. 

You already feel like you’re playing catch-up to the rest of them, especially him.

And now, somehow, you’ve inadvertently become the girl who collects phone numbers at work functions. It’s not that you wanted it, but refusing just felt unnecessarily harsh.

And what were you supposed to say? 

Sorry, but I’m secretly nursing a hopeless infatuation for the lanky genius on the stage with an alphabet soup of degrees, beautiful hands, and a voice you would happily let narrate even your most tedious existence? 

Arguably even less professional.

You take the napkin from his hand quickly, tucking it deep into your bag like maybe that’ll erase the last thirty seconds.

“That wasn’t, um, supposed to be…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Spencer interjects, gaze lowered, “I imagine it happens often.”

You press your lips together. Nervously, you steal a glance at him, noting the clench of his jaw and the almost angry crease between his brows.

“It doesn’t, actually.”

Both of you straighten at once, shoulders grazing clumsily as he smooths down his sleeves.

You silently wish, not for the first time, you could translate his face into something tangible. Profiler by osmosis, apparently, isn’t a thing.

“Well,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over. “They’re clearly behind the curve.”

Your stomach dives into freefall, landing roughly somewhere near where your purse had just been. Still, you muster a breezy smile, hand flicking dismissively.

“Oh, um, you don’t need to say that,” you say lightly, even though your mind is already sprinting between seven — no, eight — different theories on what exactly he meant by that. “But thanks.”

“I think I kind of do. Because if anyone’s asking for your number, I think it should be at least someone who —”

“Dr. Reid?” Someone interrupts, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Do you have a second to talk about the regression data on slide 19?”

Spencer nods, starting to turn, but not before his eyes catch yours again. Just once.

His mouth curves into the slightest of smiles, teasing in a way you’ve never seen, as though he’s entirely aware of the words left unsaid and exactly how they’re going to occupy your thoughts in the meantime.

You despise this new smile. You adore this new smile. You’re doomed, either way.

Without a second glance, you fish the napkin from your purse, walking to the nearest trash can and dropping it inside. 

You wonder if he’ll circle back. If he’ll finish the sentence.

And if he doesn’t, well, you’ll be thinking about it anyway.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[muletia]

-`♡´- 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐮𝐬

orion pax x human!reader x d-16 and a sprinkle of platonic x elita <3 pocket spouse au

summary: finally, the time has come to meet your spouse! after joining the Pocket Spouse Program — an Earth-Cybertron friendship pact allowing humans to become partners to bots who wish to have their very own human to love, cherish, and treat as their soft, squishy spouses — you’ve been waiting for so long for your turn to come. and as it turns out, this long-awaited day is full of pleasant surprises <3

cw: fluff, canon divergence because tfo takes place bazilion years before humans, a little bit of jealousy and obsessive thoughts, possessiveness, implied polyamory, implied nsfw thoughts (nothing explicit thought)

word count: 3900

shot out to all the anons and non-anons who gave me a lot of great ideas for this au <3

Armed with a travel bag filled with the most useful items and a backpack stuffed with supplies, you stand before the capsule-shaped elevator. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before stepping into the tight, enclosed space, and enter, sealing your fate. The doors close behind you, and without giving you even a second to prepare, the elevator descends rapidly, taking you towards your new life but not granting enough time to fully shake off the old one.

Not that there was much to shake off, considering you had willingly made the decision to join the Pocket Spouse program. Nothing was holding you on Earth, least of all luck, so you decided to seek it elsewhere. And as it happened, you chose to start your search on a planet inhabited by sentient, enormous, transforming robots who, apparently, had quite the fascination with humans. An extreme new beginning, but after hearing only good things about the living conditions and the way humans were treated with care, you figured — why not, if it meant living in luxury?

Of course, you had considered various scenarios in case the rumors turned out to be a sham. You could end up with anyone. A fetishist, a collector of exotic pets, a hoarder of toys. That was the unknown, stressful factor that the speed of the elevator gave you no chance to tame. The decision of which robotic spouse you would be assigned to also did not belong to you, so all you could do was hope for a stroke of luck that you’d end up with someone normal.

You don’t even have time to take another deep, reassuring breath when the capsule comes to a sharp stop, and almost immediately its sliding doors open.

You’re greeted by a metallic face with distinctly feminine features. Beautiful in its strange, alien way, but also serious. One look is enough to tell you that you’re dealing with a bot who is strict and has no tolerance for nonsense, but your first impression naturally shifts when your eyes and her optics meet. Her metal face softens almost instantly, easing your stress just enough for you to regain feeling in your legs. You step out toward the bot, onto a small platform designed specifically for a species of your size, and with each step, the bot seems to grow to an unsettlingly immense scale.

The room is small — or at least it seems that way as you try to translate its dimensions into the standards of the giants who inhabit this planet — and carelessly sterile in dark gray tones. There’s no doubt it was put together in a rush, without much thought, simply to exist and serve its function. Its barrenness is unsettling. So much for a luxurious life of doing nothing?

The bot straightens and pulls a datapad closer as she finally speaks. “[Name] [Last Name], I presume?” You still can’t get over how easily the metal of her face bends and flexes when needed, as if it were made of rubber.

“Exactly.”

She nods her helm. “My name is Elita One. I am the head of this mining sector, and I also hold responsibility for every pocket spouse assigned here. And unless there is a change in management, you answer to me, you listen to me, and you bring all future requests or orders to me.”

Oh. So you got assigned to the working class. Fine, you’ll adjust as soon as you get proper living conditions. “Alright.” The lack of warmth in her demeanor discourages you from wanting to engage in any future interactions, but if she’s your only lifeline to protection from potential mistreatment, you’ll treat her words as gospel. “Nice to meet you.” You smile and extend a hand toward her. She stares at you hesitantly for a moment before finally reaching out a single digit to complete the greeting.

“Likewise.”

Elita doesn’t withdraw her servo, though; instead, she straightens it and clasps her digits together, gesturing for you to climb onto her palm. “For safety.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You accept the invitation, though a red flag starts waving in your mind. You don’t remain on her servo for long, as Elita smoothly and carefully transfers you onto her shoulder.

“I advise you to be careful,” she warns. “Miners rarely interact with pocket spouses, so they might try to touch you or snatch you up in their servos. Do not try to stand, do not lean over, and above all, do not excite them. A simple wave of your hand is enough to send them into a frenzy. Understood?”

Alright, now the stress is back. You hadn’t expected such strong reactions towards humans, especially since this trend od getting pocket spouses was no longer new. “Wait. I thought pocket spouses were already a well-established concept on your planet.”

“Not in these parts,” she sighs. “On the surface, the sight of humans may not cause much of a stir, but things are different down here. For us miners, pocket spouses are a rarity. Only the best can afford them.”

Oh, so even among a highly advanced race of sentient robots, there was still a harmful caste system in place. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you stammer, because what else is there to say in this situation? When she shoots you a sour glance, you decide to change the subject, hoping to save your image from seeming callous and naïve. You clear your throat. “So, I assume you already have your own pocket spouse?”

She gives you a pointed side-eye. She saw right through your plan.

“Of course, I do. Do I need to repeat myself about being careful, or is everything clear?”

“Clear as day.” You don’t need to see her faceplate to know that this human phrase is unfamiliar to her. Feeling her impatient side-eye on you, you awkwardly correct yourself, “Yes.”

“Good. If you have anything else you’d like to know, now is the time to ask. I assure you, you won’t have time later.”

“My spouse. What are they like?”

“Spouses,” she corrects nonchalantly, not even looking up from her datapad, throwing you completely off.

“Spouses? Do I get one for free?”

Elita does not appreciate your attempt at humor. She sends you a sharp look.

“In a manner of speaking. Officially, a pocket spouse is assigned to a single bot, but there are cases of sharing. Or, if by some miracle, a human ends up with a conjunx. But I haven’t heard of such cases.”

Conjunx? That’s a new word, and it means absolutely nothing to you, but you decide to store it in your memory for later, too distracted by the fact that you’ve been assigned to a pair.

“Okay, I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No. I think? I don’t know yet, you caught me off guard.” You take a deep breath. You’ll manage. Somehow. “So, my spouses. What are they like?”

Elita’s expression darkens, and that, in turn, unsettles you. That couldn’t be a good sign.

“What is it? Did I get assigned to some creeps?”

“Worse,” she huffs. “D-16 is a decent mech and an exemplary miner, and officially, he is your spouse. But Orion —” she grips the datapad tighter as if restraining herself from an outburst “—Orion is the most foolish, irresponsible, and reckless bot on all of Cybertron. And if you think I’m exaggerating, you’re gravely mistaken. He attracts trouble like a magnet and throws himself into it because he is incorrigible. I almost pity you, really, because you couldn’t have gotten a worse match. Even Darkwing would have been a better spouse.”

But… as if fighting her own thoughts, she adds, “For all their recklessness… they worked very hard to have you, and I know they will treat you well. Perhaps clumsily at first, but well. That doesn’t change the fact that Orion has an empty canister instead of a processor, so if he does something idiotic, and he will, you are to report it to me immediately.”

Galncing at the datapad, she adds "Do you want to know anything else? We don't have much time for idle chatter."

"Just one thing. You mentioned that there's already a human in this sector. Can you arrange for us to meet sometime soon? It’d be nice to have occasional contact with someone like me."

"We'll see what can be done," she replies warily, clearly displeased with the idea. Her answer makes it obvious that there's a high chance you’ll be left hanging rather than meeting your fellow human, but you’re not giving up that easily.

"Thanks," you say. Out of politeness, feeling an even stronger urge to stay on her good side.

"Shall we begin?"

You take a deep breath. You’re doing this. You’re meeting your extraterrestrial partners, cementing your future on this planet. Your hesitation lasts only a moment — just a brief weighing of pros and cons, an instant of fighting the urge to turn around and run back to the elevator. Less than a second is all it takes for you to give your answer.

"Yes, I want to meet them."

"Be careful," she warns sharply, one last time. "I've worked too hard for this job to lose it now because of human irresponsibility."

Elita takes a step forward, and you have to grab onto her helm to keep your balance, but thankfully, an exaggerated optic-roll is her only reaction to the excess contact. The next steps aren’t as shocking; by the third, you’ve adjusted to the rhythm of the giant leading you to a set of sliding doors, which she opens with a button on the side.

Your pocket spouses certainly know how to make… an intriguing first impression.

Caught off guard by the sudden opening of the doors, they literally tumble into the room and land on the floor, shooting you a lightning-fast glance before scrambling to their pedes at record speed, straightening up as if nothing happened. Their excited grins grow quickly and they’re clearly contagious, because you feel your own lips curling into a smile.

They look masculine and young, as much as you can say that about beings whose tissues don’t age. What grabs your attention most is the bot with yellow optics. You haven’t seen such a unique color among their kind before. Maybe you haven’t met many bots yet, but you could swear most had blue optics. Interesting... You make a mental note to compliment those bright, captivating optics later.

Your gazes meet, and the mech with the unusual, beautiful optics parts his lips slightly. You get the feeling he wants to say something, but excitement completely paralyzes him.

"Well, that was a stunning performance. Was eavesdropping worth it?"

"Ahem, no... we weren't eavesdropping," Orion defends himself, though his gaze remains fixed on you.

"Forgive us, Elita, you just caught us off guard when you opened the door so suddenly," D-16 adds, having suddenly regained control over his body.

They step closer, as if hypnotized, drawn to minimizing the distance, but Elita halts them with an outstretched arm. They stop, but their lovestruck expressions make it clear that their minds are already revolving solely around you.

"Ugh, pull yourselves together," Elita scolds. "You won’t lay so much as a digit on your pocket spouse until you’ve listened to the protocol, so focus."

"Mhm, yeah, yeah."

"Now do you understand what I was talking about earlier?" she directs at you. "I wish you Primus' patience with these two airheads."

"Oh, come on, they’re quite charming," you remark — but it turns out to be unnecessary, as the eruption of joy at hearing your voice is nearly impossible for even Elita to suppress.

Both of them surge forward, their excited cheers and cooing echoing through the empty room, bombarding you with loud adoration.

"Didn’t I just say something about getting them worked up?!" Elita hisses at you, but the sharp tone doesn’t sit well with your partners, their expressions suddenly sober as they feel the instinct to stand in your defense.

"Elita, leave them alone," Orion intervenes. "They’ve done nothing wrong."

"I knew this would happen," Elita sighs. "Enough. Let me recite the protocol so we can all go our separate ways, because I don’t have time to babysit all of you."

She looks at the two mechs before her to make sure they’re listening, but it quickly becomes evident they have no intention of cooperating today.

"Primus, focus! Do you think I have time to waste? Unlike you, empty cans, I have a ton of work to do and I'd like to finish it before my shift starts."

Still seeing their dazed, absentminded expressions, Elita decides to escalate.

"Do I have to take your pocket spouse away for you to finally pay attention?"

Orion snaps out of his trance first, alarmed at the idea of you being taken away.

"What? No, no! We’re listening now, boss."

"Next time, there won’t be a verbal warning. I’ll smack you both on the helms, and that’ll be the end of your pocket spouse respecting you."

Of course, a reprimanding servo-to-helm contact was unavoidable when it became clear they were drifting off again. But after the protocol was recited, a datapad signed, and you were informed that regular supplies of human fuel and clothing would be delivered to you, the long-awaited moment of your "eviction" from Elita’s shoulder finally arrived.

She steps closer to the two bots, who extend their servos with interlaced small digits toward you so you can transfer safely. Grabbing your bag, you carefully step from her shoulder onto their servo, at last entering physical contact with your spouses.

"You have a few clicks of free time before your shift starts," Elita informs them. "And if you’re even a nanoklik late, I swear you’ll be pulling overtime."

She gives you one last soft, almost sympathetic look, so out of place with her previous authoritative tone before leaving, closing the door behind her.

Two pairs of optics focus on you.

You gaze into them, sinking into the moment, finally understanding what Elita meant about their fascination with humans. Because looking into their dazzling optics, brimming with excitement and adoration, you find yourself experiencing that same fascination with their alien race, even though you’ve met other bots before.

You can truly call yourself a pocket spouse now, completely leaving your past life behind. And you sincerely hope this one will be better. That Orion and D-16 will make it so, though you have no guarantee.

"Hello," you say warmly.

"Hi," they reply almost simultaneously.

D-16 can’t hold back any longer. He extends his servo toward you, eager to finally acquaint himself with the texture of your body, but he hesitates the moment he feels you shiver ever so slightly, struck by your fear.

"Ah, I’m sorry, don’t be afraid," he says.

A bad start. A very bad start. He worries he’s already tainted your budding relationship, that his reckless excitement has scared you enough that you won’t give him a chance to open up. But you quickly soothe his fears.

"It’s okay, really. You can touch me if you want."

Their youthful, boyish excitement returns, softening their handsome metal faces — and your heart along with them.

"Just be careful," you remind them. "Humans are quite prone to accidental squishing."

"We’ll remember," D-16 promises. "We’d never hurt you. Right, Orion?"

"Of course. You’ll be completely safe with us."

"Alright, I believe you." Not entirely. You want to believe them. But if what Elita said was true, then they would stay true to their word if they worked so hard to be assigned a human. Only fools would deliberately destroy the fruits of their labor. "So? Do you want to touch your pocket spouse?"

Your pocket spouse. Your. Theirs. Theirs and only theirs.

It’s a dangerous thought for a miner, because the concept of ownership had been limited to just a recharge station and the locker next to it. Everything else was shared. Shared washracks, shared habsuites, shared berths for resting. There was no room for theirs.

But you were theirs. Truly, undeniably, and tangibly theirs. Only theirs. And they wanted it to stay that way. Theirs to touch, theirs to give attention to, theirs to talk to and compliment. Not for Jazz, not for Wheeljack, not for Sideswipe, and no longer for Elita. Theirs. It was beautiful and terrifying at the same time because you were burdening them with responsibilities they had never known before. Theirs. They couldn’t rely on anyone else anymore.

They exchange a brief, knowing glance. Theirs. They cannot ruin this. They cannot make mistakes. You have to like them, just as they instantly fell in love with you, and see them as good spouse material. They will show you that they can take care of you. Their pocket spouse. Theirs. Only theirs.

"What’s wrong? You don’t want to?" you ask teasingly, snapping them out of the traps of their own thoughts.

"Oh, Primus, of course we do. Very much. You have no idea how much," Orion confesses.

They were both brave, but it’s Orion who makes the first move. His servo finds your back, pressing against it with a single digit. Soft. Oh, so soft.

Once, he asked Elita what her pocket spouse felt like, and that was the answer he got. He didn’t understand it then. What was softness? What kind of sensation was it? What could he compare it to? But now… now he knew that softness was you, and you were softness. And if he could, he would never let you go.

"Wow, incredible. D, this is incredible, unlike anything else. You’re… extraordinary!"

He gently strokes your back, and you allow yourself to wrap your hand around his massive metal finger, which Orion welcomes with a beaming, delighted smile. How was it possible that your servo was even softer? Or maybe somewhere else, you were even softer still. He’d heard that humans and Cybertronians were compatible, and though he knows it’s not exactly proper to let his mind drift into impure, carnal territories so early in the relationship, cannot stop himself from dreaming of drowning in your softness. Wants to be surrounded by it. Wants to be suffocated by it. Wants to feel it after every shift, wake up in it and recharge.

Impatient with his partner’s sluggishness and selfishness, D-16 clicks his glossa.

"Move your digit, Pax, it’s my turn now."

It takes Orion a few nanokliks to pull himself away from his indecent thoughts. He doesn’t want to let you go, doesn’t want to be more than a few centimeters away from you ever again, but he knows D will smack him on the still-fresh sore spot left by Elita on his helm if he doesn’t pull his servo back. So he does. And immediately, he is consumed by an overwhelming sense of loneliness and emptiness, as if his life has suddenly become incomplete. He already wants to come back to you.

D-16’s reaction is similar. Awe at the new but pleasant texture manifests in his slightly parted intake and quick strokes across your back, searching for and discovering softness. Where your hand meets his digit, an incomparable warmth spreads, giving him a sense of completeness. You, him, and Orion. Three puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly, finally reunited after years of separation.

"I’m glad you like me," you laugh. "That’s a good start, huh?"

"It was good the moment we saw you," Orion says. "Really, we couldn’t have imagined a better pocket spouse."

"You’re too kind," you reply. You know they’re speaking from excitement, their minds weaving intricate visions and fantasies about life with a pocket spouse — visions that might not be so rosy in reality — but you don’t want to ruin it for them. Especially since you want to find a good life here, too. You want to be happy, regardless of the expectations they unknowingly place upon you. If they want to play house, you’ll join them. If they have a human fetish, you’ll indulge them in that too. "I think we’ll be happy together, won’t we? I’d like that."

"We will, for sure!" Orion assures enthusiastically.

"We know we’re just lousy miners, and you won’t have any luxuries," D-16 adds, earning a sharp elbow to the side from Orion. "I wasn’t finished, Pax." He elbows him back. "But we’ll do our best to make sure you have a good life with us. We’ll do everything for you. We’ll get… almost anything, but if you need something from the city, just say the word! Orion or I will get you food, clothes, whatever you need."

"Thanks, you’re sweet," you say, touched by their words. "I know I can’t do much, but maybe I can repay you somehow?"

"Just having you here is enough for now," D-16 says, smiling softly, enchanted by your question.

"Will you touch us again?" Orion asks, only to immediately receive a frustrated elbow. "What? They asked first."

D-16 pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to believe his partner’s tactlessness. Orion’s talent for making things worse had to affect you, it just had to. Just like every fragging time, it would fall on his shoulders to get them out of trouble, and in this case, to make sure you saw them as normal and worthy of being your spouses. They cannot mess this up. At any cost.

Which is why D is surprised when he hears your soft laughter. He lifts his servo from his faceplate and looks at you hopefully. So their relationship wasn’t ruined by Orion’s loose vocalizer?

"Of course. Come closer," you say, encouraging them further by crooking a finger.

Two massive faceplates move toward you simultaneously until they finally touch. They’re so close that you can stroke their cheeks, and so you do, slowly running your fingers over warm, living metal, drowning in their proximity. Orion and D-16 press into your hands, leaning into the comforting, though foreign, softness — now only theirs. Not for perching on Elita’s shoulder anymore. For them. Theirs to be petted, theirs to be embraced.

They could spend a lifetime in this room if it meant constant cheek-stroking and being spoiled by you. Oh, how they couldn’t wait for your shared life. Waking up with you. Coming back to their recharge stations after a hard day’s work, knowing someone was waiting for them. Spending time together. Telling you about Megatronus and Sentinel, showing off their merch, sharing every detail of their lives, and begging you to tell them about yours. About your planet, your interests, your human life — so they could make your life here as good as possible, desperately vying for your affection.

You will like them. You must. Because they already adored you, unconditionally devoted to their beloved pocket spouse. Theirs.

Relaxed and overwhelmed with contentment, they let their engines hum louder.

"Oh? You like this that much?" you ask, totaly not planning to exploit the bots’ ability to purr purely for your own selfish pleasure.

"Very much," Orion rumbles.

"You’re the best," D-16 adds.

For a moment, they open their optics, their gaze focused on you. And the trust flickering within them, the fervor of emotions burning away reason convinces you that you chose well by deciding to become a pocket spouse.

[reiding-writing]

Maybe a fic where Cold! Reader has been letting her softer side show around Spencer, and one day when she lets a smile slip he tries to tell her that he likes her smile??

THE SMILE THAT SLIPPED — SPENCER REID!

you don’t feel things like this. you don’t. ever. except maybe you actually do.

spencer reid x cold!reader | 2.4k | fluff | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n— this came out to exactly 2400 words and it’s so satisfying

The bullpen is quieter than usual.

The exhaustion of a closed case hangs in the air, making the usual rustling of paperwork and distant hum of conversation feel almost comforting. You sit at your desk, the last few reports in front of you, fingers idly toying with your pen as you force yourself to focus.

It’s late, but no one’s rushing to leave. The team lingers, unwinding in the way they always do after a case—half-finished conversations, shared glances, a collective sense of relief.

Across from you, Spencer is flipping through a file at an alarming speed, his knee bouncing beneath the desk. It’s a familiar sight, one you’ve grown used to. You don’t realize you’re watching until his voice breaks through the background noise.

*"*You know, statistically speaking, people who work late tend to make more errors in their reports. Fatigue impairs cognitive function—kind of like being drunk, actually. So, technically…” He looks up, eyes bright with something innocently fascinating. “We’re all just sleep-deprived, paper-pushing drunks right now,”

It’s not the words themselves. It’s the way he says it—earnest and slightly amused, like he didn’t mean for it to sound like a joke but realised it as he was saying it.

Before you can stop it, a small smile tugs at your lips. It’s brief, barely there, but it happens.

And Spencer sees it.

He stills mid-page turn, hazel eyes widening just slightly. His lips part, like he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it. But after a beat, his voice comes, softer this time.

“I like your smile,”

The words hit like a misfired shot, straight to the chest. Your breath catches.

You freeze.

For a moment, the bullpen fades—the low murmur of voices, the shuffle of papers, the distant ringing of a phone. All of it disappears beneath the weight of his words.

People have complimented you before. You know how to brush them off, how to let them roll off your back like they mean nothing. But this? This is different.

Because Spencer isn’t saying it in passing. He isn’t trying to flatter you or win you over. He’s just saying it, like a quiet observation. Like a fact.

And that unsettles you more than anything.

Your expression shutters in an instant. The walls go up before you can think, instinctual and sharp-edged. You look away, shaking your head slightly, as if dismissing the moment entirely.

“Get back to your report, Reid.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You don’t want to see it. Instead, you focus on the papers in front of you, grip tightening around your pen.

But even as you force your attention elsewhere, his words linger. Nestle into the corners of your mind.

And that brief, impossible warmth in your chest?

You don’t want to think about what it means.

You don’t look at him again.

Not when he shifts slightly in his seat, the rustle of paper between his fingers halting for a fraction of a second. Not when he exhales softly, as if debating whether to say something more.

You just keep your eyes fixed on your report, willing the moment to disappear.

Your voice had been even, detached—just the way you intended. But there had been something else underneath. Too quiet for him to catch, you hope.

Spencer doesn’t say anything, but you feel the weight of his stare. A hesitation. A question he doesn’t voice. Then, slowly, the sound of him turning a page resumes, though less fluid than before.

Still, you don’t look up.

You can’t.

—

For the rest of the day, you keep your distance.

It’s not unusual for you to be reserved—stoic, even. No one questions it when you opt out of lingering conversations, when you choose solitude over small talk. But today, you’re avoiding Spencer in a way that’s painfully deliberate.

Every time he moves near, you find a reason to move elsewhere.

When he passes your desk to grab a file, you suddenly decide you need something from the break room.

When he glances your way during a briefing, you keep your gaze firmly on the case notes in front of you.

When he lingers near the coffee pot, shifting as if working up the nerve to speak, you bypass him entirely, opting for a bottle of water instead.

And Spencer notices.

At first, he thinks it’s a coincidence. Maybe you’re just having an off day. Maybe you’re distracted.

But by the fifth time it happens, the crease between his brows deepens.

Did he overstep?

He replays the moment in his mind, trying to pinpoint where he went wrong. He hadn’t meant anything by it—at least, not in a way that should’ve pushed you away.

He had just… liked your smile.

And maybe he shouldn’t have said it out loud, but it had slipped past his lips before he could stop it. Before he could remind himself that you don’t do things like this.

That you don’t let people in.

So why had you smiled in the first place?

And why does it bother him so much that you won’t even look at him now?

—

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter.

That the tension in your chest is nothing. That his words had been just that—words.

But as much as you try to shake them, they follow you.

“I like your smile,”

It had been soft. Unassuming. No expectation, no ulterior motive. Just an observation, spoken like a truth he hadn’t realised he was sharing.

And that’s what unsettles you the most.

You’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, making sure no one sees too much, knows too much. And yet, for one fleeting second, he’d seen something.

A crack in the armour.

And he hadn’t ridiculed it. Hadn’t pointed it out with some smug remark.

He had simply liked it.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

—

The injury isn’t bad.

It’s inconvenient, sure—annoying—but it’s nothing you can’t handle. A twisted ankle, a sharp jolt of pain when you put too much weight on it, but nothing that warrants the level of concern the team is throwing your way.

"You should ice that," Emily had said after the case wrapped, nodding toward your ankle as you leaned against the SUV.

“You should get it checked out,�� Morgan added when you limped your way back into the precinct after your foiled foot chase.

“You should at least sit down,” JJ had pointed out, exasperated, when you waved off Morgan’s concern and started organising the paperwork.

And Spencer?

He hadn’t said anything.

He had looked—of course, he had. You could feel his eyes on you in the way that made your skin prickle, in the way that made you want to disappear under the scrutiny. But he never commented, never pushed.

It should’ve been a relief.

So why does it bother you?

—

You avoid going to the coffee shop down the street for obvious reasons. The last thing you need is for someone to make a fuss over you limping back to the office, and you refuse to ask anyone to go for you.

You tell yourself you don’t care. That the shitty break room coffee machine is fine. That it doesn’t bother you.

But when you come back from a meeting and sit at your desk, a familiar cup is waiting for you.

The logo. The exact order. The slight hint of caramel in the air.

You blink, staring at it like it might disappear.

You glance around the bullpen instinctively, but no one is paying you any mind. No one except Spencer, who doesn’t look away fast enough when your eyes find him.

The second you make eye contact, he drops his gaze back to his book, fingers twitching like he hadn’t meant to get caught.

You should ignore it. Pretend you didn’t notice. Pretend the warmth curling in your chest doesn’t exist.

Instead, your fingers tighten around the cup, a quiet acknowledgment only for yourself.

Then, you notice the note.

A small yellow sticky note, left beside your keyboard.

—Caffeine may slow the healing process, but I figured you’d rather risk it. Your ankle should improve in stages: swelling will peak in 48 hours, and mobility should return within a week. Try not to push it. :)

It’s simple. Factual. Exactly what you’d expect from him.

And yet, you feel something catch in your throat.

Not because of the words themselves, but because of what they mean.

Because despite the fact that you’ve been avoiding him for days, despite the fact that you shut down the last time he got too close, Spencer still noticed.

And he didn’t push. Didn’t demand a thank you. Didn’t hover or ask if you were okay.

He just… did this.

And you don’t realize how much it means until you’re alone.

—

You stare at the coffee.

It’s lukewarm now, condensation beading against the cup, but you haven’t taken a sip. You just keep staring, fingers curled around the cardboard sleeve, chest tight with something you don’t want to name.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It’s just coffee. A stupid, simple gesture.

And yet.

The fact that you have it at all. The note. The way Spencer had looked away when you caught him watching—like he looking at you just because he wanted to.

You swallow hard.

This isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. Not really. You replay the moments in your head—the subtle ways he’s always noticed things about you before you even noticed them yourself.

The way he hands you a pen without you asking, just as yours runs out of ink.

The way he subtly shifts so you have an easier exit from a crowded room.

The way he remembers your order at every coffee shop, even when you don’t go to the same one twice.

The way he never pushes, never demands, never asks for more than you’re willing to give.

The way he just… sees you.

And that terrifies you.

Because you’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, building walls high enough that no one could ever slip through. You don’t let people close. You can’t.

But Spencer?

He’s already there.

And somehow, you hadn’t even noticed until now.

Your pulse stutters, something sharp and unfamiliar twisting in your stomach.

Oh no.

—

The next day, you wake up with a sense of urgency you don’t understand.

You can’t stop thinking about him—about Spencer. About everything. About how he’s seen you. And how that thought makes you want to hide.

You have half the mind to bury yourself in the earth and never look at him again. To pack up and leave the BAU and disappear into the anonymity of a new job, new city, new life. Somewhere no one could care enough to notice if you smiled or if you were limping or if you were secretly falling apart inside.

But you don’t.

You don’t run. Not this time.

Instead, you get to work early, before the team trickles in, before Spencer arrives and fills the room with that quietly intense energy he always carries with him.

You don’t know why you’re doing this. But the thought of avoiding him again, of pretending like nothing matters, feels too heavy to bear.

—

You don’t say anything.

You just do it.

You make his coffee—exactly the way he likes it. Not too much sugar, swirled black, in that old worn out starfish mug he should’ve thrown out years ago.

You’re silent in the break room, the hum of the coffee machine filling the space between you and the mug you slide carefully onto the counter. It feels like the most normal thing in the world to do, and yet, your heart is pounding like you’re stepping into a completely foreign territory.

You can already hear the steady click of footsteps approaching, but you don’t look up. Not until the moment is right.

He’s here.

Spencer doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes flick to the coffee on the counter, then to you, and then back to the coffee as if trying to make sense of it. It’s the same as always, and yet it’s different.

He looks up at you, caught off guard, blinking a few times.

You turn away quickly, suddenly aware of the heat in your face, as if somehow your actions were a betrayal of everything you’d been trying to keep locked away.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Nothing at all.

But then, before you can retreat into the familiar coldness, he smiles.

It’s soft. Quiet. Like he’s known all along what this was.

There’s no teasing in his eyes, no attempt to make light of the situation. Just understanding. And something else—something gentler than you’ve ever seen from him before.

His smile is everything you didn’t realize you needed.

And for once, you don’t run.

You let the moment sit.

You let the warmth settle between you.

You breathe in deeply, not pushing him away, not hiding behind your walls. Just standing in the same space with him, finally acknowledging what’s been there for far too long.

It’s not much. But it’s enough.

[zeizeizeizei]

Unpopular Alucard Headcanons 🦇

🦇 His heartbeat is unnaturally slow

Being a dhampir, his body doesn’t function like a human’s. His heart beats maybe once every few minutes, and when he meditates or sleeps deeply, it slows to an almost undetectable level. This makes it easy for people to mistake him for dead if they don’t know better.

🦇 Despite his regal demeanor, he can be incredibly stubborn

He gets this from both of his parents. While he is generally composed, he can be surprisingly headstrong when he believes he is right.

🦇 He secretly enjoys being around people but isolates himself out of guilt

While many see him as a lone figure, he actually enjoys companionship but feels unworthy of it due to his lineage and the weight of his past.

🦇 He sometimes forgets what his own voice sounds like

Spending long periods alone in the castle means Alucard can go days, weeks, or even months without speaking. Sometimes, when he finally does, his voice comes out quieter than expected, or he startles himself by how deep it is.

🦇 He has never truly celebrated his birthday

While he knows the day he was born, it has never been a day of joy for him. His mother may have marked the occasion with warmth, but after her death, he stopped acknowledging it altogether. He wonders if Dracula ever remembered.

🦇 He used to sing as a child but no longer does

Lisa encouraged him to sing when he was young, and his voice was light and pure. However, after losing his mother, he never found the heart to sing again. He still hums absentmindedly when lost in thought, though he never realizes he’s doing it.

🦇 His laugh is rare, but it's hauntingly beautiful

Alucard rarely laughs, but when he does, it’s light and musical, almost as if he’s forgotten how to express joy. It has an eerie, mesmerizing quality, as if for just a moment, the weight of centuries is lifted from his shoulders.

🦇 He doesn’t need to breathe, but he does anyway

His body doesn’t require oxygen in the same way humans do, but he still breathes out of habit. If he concentrates, he can go completely still, like a statue, for days without any movement.

🦇 His presence subtly affects the environment

When he walks into a room, candles flicker. The air gets cooler when he’s deep in thought. Even when he’s not using magic, something about him bends the space around him slightly, like reality itself acknowledges his unnatural nature.

🦇 His eyes glow in the dark

In dim lighting, his golden eyes reflect ambient light like a predator’s, making them glow faintly. In absolute darkness, they shimmer unnaturally, giving him an almost spectral appearance. It’s one of the reasons he avoids letting people see him at night.

🦇 He sleeps curled up, like a child

When he sleeps, especially during moments of vulnerability, he instinctively curls in on himself, as if trying to protect himself from something unseen.

🦇 He doesn’t hate his father—but he cannot forgive him either

Despite everything, Alucard still loves his father in a complicated, painful way. He understands Dracula’s grief, but he cannot forgive the destruction he caused.

🦇 He doesn’t like killing, but he is terrifying when he does

Unlike his father, Alucard does not take joy in battle. He fights with precision and restraint, but when truly enraged, he unleashes a level of destruction that unsettles even himself.

🦇 He is both afraid of and drawn to the idea of companionship

He craves connection but fears what it could mean. He has lost everyone he has ever cared for—what if he loses them again? What if he is meant to be alone forever?

🦇 He has considered letting himself die

The thought has crossed his mind more than once. The idea of fading away, of ending the lonely existence he has been trapped in. But something, some tiny ember of his mother’s voice, always tells him to keep going.

🦇 His hands shake when he’s deeply emotional

Whether it’s anger, grief, or overwhelming sorrow, his body betrays him in subtle ways. His fingers tremble, his breath hitches, and for a brief moment, the composed prince looks like a lost boy.

🦇 He can smell emotions

His sense of smell isn’t just sharp—it’s supernatural. He can pick up traces of emotions like fear, anger, or sorrow as subtle shifts in scent, which is why he’s eerily good at reading people even when they try to hide their true feelings.

🦇 He wonders what his mother would think of him now

More than anything, he wishes Lisa could see him—not just as the boy she raised, but as the man he has become. Would she be proud? Would she be sad? He will never know, and that is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.

Source: my 🍑

Enjoy.

[unconditionalcaretaker]

No one talks about how creepy Morrowind is. I don’t mean the plot lines, although a lot of those are quite dark too. But out of Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim, it’s the only one that has that eerie feeling you get in Super Mario 64 that has led to so many creepypastas.

There are big empty spaces and mazelike dungeons where the game feels lonesome and suffocating, in the sense that you might be trapped somewhere forever. The lack of a quest marker system, and the use of verbal directions that are easy to misunderstand, enhances this lost feeling. The dialogue system, which is mostly reading, leaves tone of voice open to interpretation (potentially hostile interpretation) and offers the feeling of searching for secret information as you click different options to unlock hidden sections of the dialogue tree. Characters are strangely beautiful, yet not high-res enough for their expressions and movements to actually match their voices, so you end up with characters attacking while looking fairly calm. The voices themselves are gravelly and menacing, with battle cries that sound unnatural and desperate and sometimes quite hateful. In ambient dialogue, NPCs don’t talk aloud cheerfully, they whisper inaudibly to themselves, mutter about having strange dreams or the feeling of being watched, and they cough with unsettling realism. And of course, there are frequent glitches. I remember standing on the Vivec rooftop once and doing weird stuff with levitation when the skybox suddenly disappeared, leaving me under a void. I just stood there for a long time, looking up, admiring the surreality of the whole thing. This is all compounded by the fact that glitches can corrupt a save file or cause a quest to stop functioning, so there’s a sense that this eeriness could have real, upsetting consequences for you as a player.

Idk, I just love this aspect of older games.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Can you explain why nanago makes more sense than satosugu

OK, sit down, because this isn’t just a ship, this is a post-mortem. I love Nanago/Gonana because it’s the most adult, most tragically plausible what-if in JJK—like something delicate and unsaid that fell through the cracks while everyone was screaming.

First off: Nanami died trying to get to Gojo.

Like, literally. He wasn’t running aimlessly—he was heading toward B5. Toward the prison realm. Toward him. And no one talks about it. No one acknowledges that the final direction of his dying momentum was Gojo. Not safety. Not escape. Him.

That alone speaks volumes.

And here’s the thing: Gojo, with his blinding charisma, never stops performing—even in grief. But Nanami sees through that. And not in the "oh he’s secretly sad" fanon way. I mean deeply, in the kind of way that unsettles Gojo. Like looking directly at the sun and not flinching. That’s why I love scenes where Gojo is radiant, slightly deranged, and Nanami is watching with this unreadable, weary softness—a look that says "you’re killing yourself and calling it duty." Nanami was always capable of seeing what Gojo would never say aloud.

Gojo looks bewitching. Nanami looks at him like he’s already mourning him. And that’s the whole ship.

Now here comes the psychological autopsy:

Nanami is a hyper-functional depressive. All structure, routine, and withdrawal. He doesn't know how to ask for an emotional connection, but he knows how to give care in practical, quiet ways—and he craves a target for that care, or it turns inward and rots him.

Gojo is a charisma-addicted, touch-starved man with abandonment trauma so bad he thinks being needed is the same as being loved. He’s terrified of intimacy but craves validation. Most people either worship him or resent him. Nanami does neither—he just sees him.

They don’t just make sense—they stabilize each other:

Nanami gives Gojo structure and care without demanding performance. He’s the only one who’d tell Gojo to sit down, eat something, and shut up—and Gojo would listen.

Gojo gives Nanami purpose outside of grief. Not as an ideal, not as a child to save, but as a man who is barely holding it together. And that’s what Nanami needed—not another burden, but someone worthy of his attention who wouldn't fall apart if he blinked.

Nanami fusses over people like a dad with no kids, and Gojo is a grown man with the emotional injuries of a war orphan. They would’ve grown into each other like vines if the world hadn’t already broken them in opposite ways.

It’s not about “soulmates.” It’s about missed timing.

Adult Gojo could have been saved if Nanami had survived.

And Nanami could’ve finally lived, if he had Gojo to pull him out of the trench of routine.

So… why Nanago instead of Satosugu?

Because Nanago is what happens after grief—after boyhood, after ideology, after the dream has burned out and you’re left with ashes and still have to wake up at 7 a.m. to go to work you hate even if you were once that wide eyed fool who believed in what they did before the real world sucked that out of you, and now, you are just a shell passing through life. Where once you planned for things, now things just happen to you and you take it with an eyeroll because what else should you have expected.

I don't hate STSG, they make sense in their own ways, but that's what it is at the end of the day, when you grow out of that spring, out of that old hoodie—the one you won’t throw away even though the sleeves are fraying and it doesn’t keep you warm anymore. You keep it because it smells like who you were before life ground you down. It has holes in it—even if it feels soft, it won't keep the cold away.

But eventually, you grow out of that version of yourself.

You need to put on a jacket now if you are to survive the cold.

Satosugu is a ghost story.

It’s young love that died in the womb. A "what could’ve been" that stayed locked in one spring. It’s the echo of a summer that never made it into fall. It's young love that never had to deal with gas bills and funerals, and eating alone.

But Nanago? That’s a relationship that could’ve existed. Quietly. Constantly. Fully adult.

Nanago is what happens when you survive.

Barely. Bitterly. Bored and exhausted and ageing by the hour.

Nanago is that moment in adulthood where you realise love isn’t a miracle—it’s logistics. It’s making space for someone else in your day, in your decisions. It’s Nanami packing an extra energy bar that he knows Gojo will forget. It’s Gojo learning not to interrupt when Nanami is reading. It’s quiet, stable, slow. No anxiety, confused for fireworks all the time. Just… not being alone, forgotten.

And that’s what Gojo actually needed.

Gojo didn’t need a second love. He needed a first real one.

STSG meant to break your heart, and they do.

Not because Suguru didn’t love him—he did. But love isn't enough when you're still trying to outrun the world.

Because at the end of the day, Suguru chose to leave him so that he could create a world where people like him, Gojo, small children—little girls like Nanako and Mimiko, could be saved. But he decided genocide was the way because it was easier then having to fucking stick around to not hurt others while hurting himself.

But if killing innocents would have been the solution, then we wouldn't progress; we would just perpetuate the suffering.

Suguru left. Not just Gojo, but everyone. He wanted to fix the world by ending it. Because destruction felt easier than choosing to stay and suffer with people. Because he thought hurting others might finally drown out his own pain.

Nanami left, too—but only because he had to. Not kill, instead, to do a job he hates, for people who would post a job listing for his position by the end of the day, even if he mysteriously disappeared, or was found dead in his apartment, because the neighbours smelled something weird and called the police.

He didn’t believe in the Jujutsu system after Haibara. He knew it would eat him alive. But he still showed up. He still did the job. He died walking into fire, not because he thought it would fix anything—but because someone had to get closer to Gojo. Even if it meant burning on the way down.

Nanami’s not a revolutionary. He’s a nurse in a war.

And Gojo? Gojo’s the patient nobody knows how to save.

But Nanami would’ve tried.

That’s the difference.

Satosugu was a dream.

Nanago could’ve been a home.

But that being said, if you wanna talk about how powerful of a girl-dad Suguru is, then I will die on that same hill with you. But despite him doing everything, his girls didn't get to live in the world he envisioned. It's poetic because in Hindu religious texts, there's a lot of talk about your parents' karma coming back to bite you.

After all, the debt is still pending.

I love that man. But he left.

Nanami would’ve stayed. That’s the line that divides fantasy from survival.

And Nanami… Nanami needed someone too bright to ignore and too stubborn to let him give up.

Someone who saw his silences and didn’t ask him to explain them. Someone who needed his steadiness without turning it into a leash. Someone who wouldn’t make him feel boring just because he wasn’t breaking apart.

Anyway, I’ll be crying in the pantry again. Please send tissues and financial aid.

Thanks for this amazing ask, Anon :P Hope it was not too raw and adult, but I thrive in looking at things with a realistic perspective.

Hope I made sense :)

The first gif is from @azurepath, they make great renaissance-esque Nanago art :) 3rd is by @nanagoing :) Rest, idk so hit me up for credits or removals.

[crustyfloor]

I feel like Paratise is definitely a song about Ivan's reflection on his relationship with Till, how he found his heart in Till's presence in his life now that I hear it, but really also the full depth in how selfish Ivan is, how these feelings of his function and how much he desires in such a way his heart doesn't outwardly appear to be, to think back to Nowhere, an encapsulation of an Ivan who had not met Till and had not yet been influenced by him- Ivan's life was lifeless, unemotional in all senses as he found life was just something he was surviving, "wrong or right, win or die" he didn't consider any complexity because the world was simple, you're either the kind of person that lives or dies here, there were bad people and there were good people, simple cateragories that made it easy for him to grasp the world, in that it describes his passive reaction to the world, he was content with just living like that, being another life in Anakt garden appealing to the aliens and appearing perfct until he would eventually die

And then there is a shift. The song references a scene where Mizi and Till were lured to the wagyein in Black Sorrow, and the moment Ivan's eyes opened to Till. -"I bared my fang for the first time within that shadow" referring to the moment Ivan's fixation and fascination on Till developed right then and there because of the way Ivan felt drawn to someone like Till who was so different from him, exhibited so much endless warmth and life that Ivan couldn't see within himself, and inherently, Till was the opposite of everything Ivan believed in. Till's intensity, life, and anger, the way he breathed humanity, awakened something in Ivan (exactly...exactly..) Ivan had never wanted anything or anyone like that before, but from that moment moving forward, Ivan would want Till, fight with him, for the acknowledgement and connection he found in his tumultuous relationship with Till

Something helpless, obsessive, and selfish made Ivan childish and desperate when he would seek Till out, even if he was only met with vitriol and confusion in return. Ivan understands where they stand with each other, and still, this song aligns with how Ivan perceives himself as twisted and unlovable. But he has always, always been content with lingering in Till's shadow instead of recoiling from the rejections because in Till's heart, in the anger and the frustration and the pain Ivan would leave him in Ivan claimed a space inside of Till just for himself, like Mizi did with the way Till lived for her, wrote for her. He wanted to selfishly "take up the biggest space in Till's mind," but there is only a passive hope that he can fit in between the empty lines, so he fits himself in the crevices of Till's cracks and wounds like a bug to claim a space. Sees the way Till readily regards him with disdain, yet recognizes him, takes in everything Till gives him, the moments where he feels his gaze, and calls that little space his own to replace what could be love (It's interesting because, even if he doesn't recognize the way Till does care for him, even his hatred would suffice for Ivan, as long as he isn't refusing Ivan from his space). As long as he could have more and more of what Till would give. As long as he could still linger, Ivan liked this wayward relationship they had together. Being with Till allowed Ivan to feel so much, to live for something unlike before. That kind of freedom itself was his paradise

Paratise's duality is so fascinating and good because it's describing all sorts of cruelty and darkness, something repulsive, yet it's still a declaration of a sensual yearning and desire as an expression of Ivan's feelings -

Ivan's feelings for Till are obsessive and unsettling, violent but gentle, passionate, and luminous. Ivan's instincts and mentality have been distorted since his childhood, otherwise, he can't express himself in "normal" ways. I would guess that's exactly why Ivan perceives himself as such a parasite. And perhaps why the only way he sees himself getting close to Till is by something forceful, imposing like a fist, like giving Till a reason to lash out and building the foundation of their relationship on something sour, to wound him deeper and become an unforgettable scar that Till wouldn't be able to understand, whilst expressing only the most vulnerable parts of him where it couldn't be seen, likely he didn't think they could possibly be accepted with how clumsy and different they were from what Till could do by comforting flowers earnestly

The way he wants to hurt Till and to crawl into a place inside him, somewhere warm and far away from the world they live in, where Ivan doesn't belong, a place within Till that was something that Ivan wanted all to himself- "Be my own private paradise" even if it's just a small thing or to a cost. Intertwining his existence with Till's, desiring Till is uncontrollable after it's festered so much into something so strong. Initially, I was confused by the title, but I believe that's why "paratise" is intentional. It's exactly how Ivan sees this relationship he and Till have made, it's a wordplay between paradise and parasite... an obsession and an infatuation so deeply twisted and visceral and beyond words and something too disturbing to be accurately be described with love or hate, it meshes into something indescribable into a word that's the inbetween what Ivan finds in this relationship, a paradise and something unmistakely twisted and sticky and dependent like parasitism, something uniquely Ivan in ways other words can't perfectly describe

[orellazalonia]

What He Finally Learns

Summary: As the Avengers prepare for a mission that will bring them closer to your location than ever before, Bucky secretly clings to a video you unknowingly left behind; your quiet heartbreak revealing how unseen and unimportant you always felt.

Word Count: 3.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

The compound was quiet, dim with the stillness of too many unanswered questions.

The previous mission had been a failure. At least, that’s what the report would say. No sign of the enemy. No confrontation. Just an empty base scrubbed clean, with every hard drive wiped and even the dust disturbed like someone had intentionally unsettled it. The only thing left behind was a quiet sense of absence. Something had once lived there. Not anymore.

Bucky stayed behind after the others finished the debrief. Something didn’t sit right. It wasn’t tactical, it was instinctual. Like walking through a ghost’s memory.

So he went to your old desk, the room he stepped in was small. Office-like. Not messy, but functional. Two mugs were still on the shelf with one having lipstick faded on the rim that you didn’t bother bringing. He also recognized a sweater folded neatly over the chair’s back, the same one he’d seen you wear sometimes with your sleeves always tugged past your knuckles.

He moved slowly and carefully like he didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile pieces remained.

There was a small tablet hidden away in the desk, screen faintly scratched. You probably forgot about it. It was locked, but it didn’t take him long, he had skills for this. Accessing encrypted drives used to be a job. Now it was just muscle memory.

It wasn’t a mission file. It was a video. No timestamp. No label. Just… your name in the corner. And the faint hum of low light.

Bucky hesitated but hit play.

You were seated in frame. Slightly off-center, like you hadn’t meant to record anything formal. Your hair was tied back and your eyes were tired. No makeup, no pretense. Just you. You didn’t speak at first. Just looked somewhere off-camera, blinking slowly, like trying to hold yourself still enough to not feel something.

And then you started to talk.

“I think there’s something broken in me that just wants to be useful. Like… if I’m helpful enough, I’ll matter. Like maybe I’ll take up enough space where someone would finally notice.”

You smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. Just a tug of the lips, wry and sad..

“I don’t know why I’m doing this. I heard it helps to journal. But I used to think that if I worked hard enough, stayed out of the way, then someone might see me. Not as a teammate or even as a friend. Just… see me. Recognize that I was there.”

Bucky’s hands clenched slowly at his sides.

“But I guess people don’t notice the lights that stay on, only the ones that flicker. And I just so happened to be always steady, always silent. The background to their brilliance.”

There was a pause. You rubbed hands together nervously, looking down.

“Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just stopped showing up. If anyone would ask or if they’d just assume I transferred. Or died, quietly, in the middle of some file update.”

The silence afterward was brutal. He could hear your breathing; shallow, steady, and controlled.

“I don’t blame them. Not really. I just… wish I had been someone worth remembering.”

The video cut out. No goodbye. No signature. Just that last, unbearable sentence echoing like a gunshot.

Bucky sat in the silence it left behind. Not moving. Not breathing. Just staring at the still frame frozen on the screen. Your face. Your words. Your pain.

He hadn’t seen you, not really. Not when you were around. Not when you were quietly doing your job, never needing thanks. Never asking for notice.

But now? Now, your absence was louder than most people’s presence. And he hated that he only realized it after you were gone.

After another failed search for you, the ride back to the compound was filled with static silence.

Bucky didn’t speak. Didn’t hand over the tablet. Didn’t mention the video. But he kept it tucked in the inner lining of his gear, close to him like some part of him thought the words might bleed into his bones if he kept them near long enough.

No one asked what he found before. Maybe they assumed there was nothing. Or maybe they could read the way his shoulders held the weight of something they weren’t ready to carry.

Steve debriefed quietly with Natasha and Sam. There was no victory to celebrate, only confirmation: the enemy was ahead of them. Smarter. Faster. One step further every time.

The woman, Bucky’s someone, floated in and out of the war room with the same serene detachment she always had. She brought them tea. Lightly teased Sam when he scowled at another dead lead. She leaned a hand on Bucky’s shoulder as she passed, offering him a soft, wordless smile.

He didn’t return it. Not this time. He didn’t shrug her off, either, just let her touch pass like water, something that could no longer reach him fully.

Her words echoed faintly in his head, like smoke: “She didn’t really fit in here anyways, did she? Kind of kept to herself. I always assumed she’d move on.”

And then yours, not long after:

“I used to think that if I worked hard enough, someone might see me…”

The contrast burned.

The next mission was set with alarming speed. A new location. Another “hidden” base identified by Bruce, picked up in the tail of an encrypted ping. Something you might’ve caught weeks ago, if you were still with them. If they’d been paying attention.

Steve moved with purpose, but his eyes were more tired than before. Natasha reviewed formations, sharp and professional, but quieter than usual. Sam asked about escape routes twice as if he didn’t trust any of this to go clean.

And Bucky, he checked his weapons. Reviewed the maps. Ran recon. But in the silence between, he replayed the video. Not for pain. Not for guilt.

But because it was real. The only honest thing he had left about you.

They hadn’t found any new footage of you. No confirmed sightings. No sound bites, no intercepted comms. Just dead ends and wiped drives and the echo of your absence in places you used to sit.

You were out there. Alive, changed, and maybe not on their side anymore. But never just a ghost.

He closed the tablet and tucked it back inside his vest.

And when Steve said, “We move at dawn,” Bucky only nodded once.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t tell anyone what he saw. Not yet. Because something in him whispered, worried that if they saw that recording too soon, they’d see you as a weakness.

And for the first time in months, Bucky wasn’t sure what side of the line he stood on. Not when it came to you.

The hours before a mission were always the quietest.

The hangar buzzed low with the whir of prep of gear checks, last-minute uploads, suits being sealed and weapons aligned. Natasha stood by the monitors, her gaze cold and sharp. Sam reviewed the aerial scans Bruce had fine-tuned just an hour before. Steve kept pacing near the Quinjet, arms folded, and eyes flicking to each of them like he could hold them together by willpower alone.

Bucky kept his distance like usual. He strapped his knives into place. Loaded his sidearm with meticulous focus. Checked his earpiece, then checked it again. He hadn't spoken more than a handful of words all morning. No one asked why.

No one noticed how he hadn’t been sleeping. How he double-checked the route three times last night, long after the others went to bed. How his fingers lingered over the inside pocket of his jacket, where the tablet still rested, untouched by anyone but him.

The girl who had once been his comfort entered in mid-morning with her usual warm smile and a thermal mug of coffee for Steve. She handed it off with a soft murmur, her other hand brushing Bucky’s arm in passing.

“You don’t have to carry everything, you know,” She said gently, a faint tease in her voice. “You’ve got people.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t answer. And for the first time… she noticed. There was a flicker of pause in her face. The briefest narrowing of her eyes. Then her smile returned, unfazed.

“Well,” She said lightly, glancing over at Steve. “If you all need anything before you go, just let me know. I’ll be around.”

Steve gave her a polite nod. Sam murmured a distracted thanks. She left the hangar as quietly as she came in. But Bucky watched her go, something unreadable in his stare.

He didn’t trust her. Not anymore. He didn’t know if he ever truly had or if she’d simply fit into the gaps where life had left him hollow. She had been sweet. Soothing. Gentle in the way soft lies often were.

But you had never tried to be that. You had simply been honest. Quiet, yes. Awkward, maybe. But never fake. But he had never tried to acknowledge any of that till now. And now the only traces of you he had were clipped recordings buried in a stolen file and the phantom silence of the seat you used to occupy across mission tables. The longer they chased shadows, the more he feared it: that they had lost you to the wrong side and that they had pushed you there themselves.

“Five minutes,” Steve called out, snapping everyone back to focus.

Bucky stood, weapons in place, and jaw tight.

Whatever this mission held, whatever base they were headed for next, he had a feeling it wasn’t just about cutting off a head of the organization anymore. There were pieces still missing. Threads pulled tight around something deeper. And though no one said it aloud…

They all felt it. You were at the center of it. Maybe you weren’t the enemy, but you weren’t one of them anymore either. And Bucky didn’t know which outcome he feared more.

The alarm started low. Just a pulsing tone beneath the hum of overhead lights, like the building had a heartbeat and it had suddenly quickened.

You didn’t look up at first.

You were seated at the edge of a long metal table, eyes scanning one of Maren’s latest handoffs of network logs, patterns, and reconnaissance models that you were quietly, and more skillfully than anyone else here, picking apart. Another screen flickered with footage. Not of the Avengers this time, but of a smaller SHIELD outpost. One the organization had eyes on.

A quiet shift of balance. A new target. The second tone came louder. And this time, red light blinked across the top corners of the room.

You turned in your chair just as Maren came in through the steel door, less casual than usual. There was tension in her shoulders, but she hid it beneath a small smirk.

“Well,” Well said lightly, “Guess we’re having fire drills now.”

You stood slowly. “What is it.”

She waved a hand toward the glass pane. Down the corridor, you could see a few others moving quickly. Some with urgency, but not panic.

“Surveillance sweep caught something weird,” She said. “Signal bounce matched one of your old frequency ranges.”

You blinked. “The Avengers?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Intel says it’s likely. But it could also be someone pretending to be them. Either way, leadership wants to shift locations again. They don’t want to risk exposure, not now.”

You glanced toward the window again. The air suddenly felt thinner and colder, like the walls were remembering how to hold you again.

Maren stepped closer.

“They’ll want you in the second caravan,” She said. “It’s less attention that way until we’re sure we’re not compromised.”

You didn’t respond at first. Because something sat twisted in your stomach. Not fear, exactly, not even guilt. Just… the awareness that this place you had started to grow into, the first place where your mind had felt seen, was still a fortress.

Still temporary. Still ready to disappear the second anything real drew near.

You looked at Maren.

Her smile softened, more careful this time. “You’ll be alright. We’ve got you.”

But as you followed her out of the room, walking past people who now nodded when you passed, who sought your opinion, who used your analyses like gospel, you had that strange feeling again.

You didn’t want to run. Not this time. Because if it was them. If they were coming now, after all this time, after leaving you behind, after forgetting you; you wanted to see who they were now. If they were just as hollow as they made you feel.

And if they had finally come… to save you. Or just to stop you.

The hallway continued to pulse with red light and clipped orders.

Boots on concrete. Quiet urgency. Controlled withdrawal. People packed crates with precision, hands practiced in the rhythm of disappearing. You walked among them unnoticed but not out of disregard, but because you weren’t expected to panic. You were useful and trusted. The kind of asset who got escorted second not because they didn’t care, but because they assumed you’d already figured a backup plan if things went sideways.

And you always did.

You reached the loading bay just as the first caravan started to move. There were trucks. Two armored vans. A trail vehicle. All headed for an off-grid location you’d helped locate last month, buried beneath so many encryption layers it would take even Stark months to trace it.

Maren was by the gate, tablet in hand, and brows furrowed in concentration.

She glanced up when she saw you. “Van two in the back left. There’s a seat with your name on it.”

You moved to step past her then paused.

“Are you coming?”

She gave a small smile. “Not yet. Last-minute patchwork. They want eyes on the rear systems until we’re sure it’s not just a scare.”

You hesitated enough for her to notice.

“We’ll see each other again,” She reassured softly. “Don’t look like that.”

You didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, then stepped into the van’s shadows and sank into the corner seat. The door shut behind you. You kept your eyes on the window, watching the lights flicker and twist as the base began to purge data in real time. Mainframes going dark, terminals blacking out one by one. The signal was clear:

Whoever was coming was already too close.

Outside, not far beyond the mountain pass, the Quinjet cut low through clouds.

Steve’s voice was steady over comms. “Final sweep, no obvious heat signatures. We keep it tight. If they’re there, they know we’re coming.”

“They’re there,” Natasha said. Her tone wasn’t a guess, it was certainty.

“Or they were,” Sam muttered, eyes flicking over the monitors.

From the back, Bucky checked his gear one last time. He hadn’t spoken much since departure. Just silent and focused, eyes darker than usual. He hadn’t said your name, but it sat heavy behind every breath.

Natasha glanced over from the bench across. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered. Then, more quietly: “I just want answers.”

The Quinjet slowed.

“Approaching target zone,” FRIDAY announced. “There are signs of recent movement. Base is no longer cold.”

Steve stood and signaled them. “We move on foot and we go fast. Don’t break formation.”

They touched down five minutes later.

The moment Bucky’s boots hit the ground, he felt it.

Not heat. Not threat. But… presence.

Like you were still here. Like this place remembered you.

Steve gave the order. They breached the perimeter fast through reinforced side access. The air inside was stale, but not undisturbed. Computers still hummed. Floors were clean. Not a drop of dust. Not like last time.

“They left in a hurry,” Natasha observed, crouching beside a freshly yanked power cable.

“Then they knew we were coming,” Sam replied grimly.

Bucky’s eyes tracked along the corridor. Doors left half-open. Screens still flickering out final traces of wiped data. A mug. A file left behind. He stepped toward it then stopped.

On the desk was a clipboard. Just one. The name at the top? Yours.

He exhaled slowly.

“You were here,” He whispered.

Not just involved. Present. Maybe only minutes ago. Too close. Too late.

Steve pressed his fingers to his comm. “Everyone sweep east, this wasn’t abandoned. They’re still moving.”

“They’re not just moving,” Sam called from the upper ledge. “They’re evacuating. I’ve got heat signatures heading into the lower exit tunnels, northbound. At least two armored vehicles pulling out now.”

Bucky was already moving. “Can we cut them off?”

“Negative,” FRIDAY replied sharply in his earpiece. “They’re on an off-road route and cloaked. They’ll be buried by terrain in sixty seconds unless you launch a drone now.”

“I’ve got it,” Natasha said, already deploying the small drone. It zipped through the air like a hornet. On the screen, the visuals sharpened as it locked onto the second vehicle.

That was when they saw you, barely a frame.

Just the curve of your shoulder, the side of your face half-obscured by the angle of the armored window. You weren’t panicked. You weren’t restrained. You were seated. Eyes down, calm, and still so unmistakably you.

Bucky leaned closer to the screen, throat tightening. “That’s her.”

Steve cursed under his breath. “They moved faster than expected.”

“Which means they’ve done this before,” Natasha muttered.

“They’re organized. Too organized,” Sam added. “And she… she didn’t look like a hostage.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Because that still frame was seared into him. Not just because it was you. But because of how different you looked from the girl he remembered in the compound.

Not hurt. Not scared. Just… far away.

Meanwhile, you felt it before you saw it. A hum in your bones, sharp like pressure. Something familiar. Familiar in a way that made your pulse catch without rising.

You didn’t look out the window, but you knew. They were close.

You kept your hands folded in your lap, steady, while the others in the van double-checked the rear systems and confirmed their routes.

Maren’s voice came over the comm, calm and professional. “Exit route confirmed. Units dispersed. No direct pursuit.”

You could hear the faint smile in her voice.

“They missed us.”

You didn’t reply. Not because you were relieved. But because the truth hit you harder than you expected: They came and You were right. But it didn’t change anything.

You were still in a moving van, heading deeper into the folds of a world they didn’t understand. And they were behind you, too late, standing in the echo of where you used to be.

Part of you wondered if any of them had seen you. If they recognized the back of your head through bulletproof glass. If Bucky did.

You didn’t look back to check. You just sat with the heavy truth nestled in your chest like something warm and rotten at the same time:

They came, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Taglist: @herejustforbuckybarnes @iyskgd @torntaltos @julesandgems @maesmayhem @w-h0re @pookalicious-hq @parkerslivia @whisperingwillowxox @stell404 @wingstoyourdreams @seventeen-x @mahimagi @viktor-enjoyer @vicmc624 @msbyjackal @winchestert101 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @avivarougestan @saoirses-things @itsmejen

[liveyun]

WIRED | k.nj

summary. You’ve spent years perfecting your first android. But as you power him on for the first time, something feels off. The sense of control you once had begins to slip, and suddenly, you realize—he may be is more than just a machine.

title. wired

pairing. kim namjoon x fem reader (oc), hints of jungkook x oc

genre. android!au, yandere(?) , dark content

wc. 3.7k

warnings. oh boy here we go, scientist!oc, android!joon, unsettling themes as in psycological manipulation, obsessive behaviour and slight yandere, mild horror (oc realises she’s cooked lmfaoo) (halloween special?) slight non-con themes but no nsfw tho, dominance, android joon is hot byee, jungkook! jungkook ? . . . lots of technical terms which you might need to google if you are unfamiliar with them like i was xD, implied stalking (you will understand who is), i really tried 🙏🏾

this smol drabble was really inspired by artificial heart by @writerpetals ! please check her works out, she’s amazing!

main masterlist | taglist

The lab is quiet.

Too quiet.

You stand in the stillness, only the faint hum of cooling fans breaking the silence echoing in your ears. The familiar mechanical sounds — servo motors whirring softly, air ducts breathing through the vents — all the familiar characteristics of your good old lab used to calm you.

But tonight, the sounds seem different.

Almost. . . detached. Like they belong to someone else’s lab. And you are just a guest here, standing in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

You take a slow breath, your eyes drifting over the towering figure in front of you, the cylindrical glass sheath unlocked from over his model.

RM.

The product of months — no, years — of work. Of restless nights, of failure and determination. From the initial sketches to the delicate wiring of his artificial synapses, you had envisioned every piece, every movement. You had wanted him to be different. Special.

You had wanted him to be human.

Or at least, as close to a human as possible. His skin, so perfect in its imitation, stretched smoothly over the metallic frame beneath. His lips — plump, lifelike — looked almost too real. His dragon-like eyes, sharp and crystalline, seemed to glow even in the dim light of the lab. Even when there was no life, no, power running inside his veins. Every feature had been carefully crafted with Jungkook’s help, to help the ideal you had in mind.

But now that he’s finished, now that he stands in front of you, lifeless but complete, the pride you once felt has faded into something else. Something. . .unsettling.

You wanted this — this perfection. This mirror of humanity. Yet as you stare at RM, your skin prickling under the too-bright overhead lights, you can’t shake the feeling that maybe you’ve gone too far. Maybe there was a reason no one else had tried this before.

A reason why no android had ever been designed to look this human like. Every shield, every plaster, every pore — looks so detailed that it’s nearly impossible to figure out if he’s artificial, given if no one would tell you so.

But why does it feel like you’ve actually gone too far when this was what exactly you wanted?

You don’t know. And perhaps, you wouldn’t want to know, too.

His memory doesn’t even exist. There’s nothing in him but the database you installed, an organised collection of information that dictates what he knows, how he functions, and why was he created. And yet, staring at him now, you could swear there’s something behind those dormant eyes. Something watching. Waiting.

You shake your head. He’s just a machine. He isn’t human — no matter how real he looks, no matter how lifelike his features are. You created him, after all.

You’re in control.

Your gaze flickers to the small panel embedded in his chest. One button. One switch, and everything inside him — the circuits, the synapses, the artificial intelligence you spent months programming — would power down. A single press, and he’s nothing more than a shell. A hollow, empty thing, dependent entirely on your commands, on your fingertips.

Made by you.

But the thought doesn’t comfort you as much as it should.

You take a step closer, your breath catching as you reach out, fingertips hovering just inches from his face. The skin feels warm, almost soft, even though you know it’s just layers of silicone and synthetics. Too real. His eyes, though they haven’t opened, seem to bore into you.

Maybe it’s just your imagination. After all, he’s not alive.

He’s not human.

You remind yourself again, a small voice in your own mind, trying to push away the small seed of doubt. But it lingers, growing roots in the back of your thoughts.

And for the first time, you wonder if you’ve created something you can’t quite understand.

You nibble on your bottom lips, suddenly feeling your palms getting clammy despite the air conditioning system in your lab. Today was supposed to be the day when you were finally going to run your creation for the first time ever after being completed, but now it just feels. . .

What does it feel like?

It took you so many attempts. So many glitches and bugs which nearly made you demotivated enough to abandon your project for nearly two months, but you see, motivation hits the hardest at the most random of times. You remember how your phone restarting had made your heart skip a beat, and suddenly you’d found yourself driving to your lab at 2:30 AM with tears in your eyes out of frustration and relief.

After that, everything is history.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, though it’s probably only a few seconds. His hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, his cheekbones structured and chiseled. Even his skin tone looks like he’s been bathed in a tub of golden honey. He looks beautiful, almost perfect. But why does that bring a furrow to your eyebrows?

The lab remains deathly quiet, except for the faint buzz of cooling fans and the occasional whirring of the air ducts. RM stands there, unmoving.

You force yourself to look away, eyes trailing to the control panel on the desk. The switch. Your thumb hovers over the console, the last line of code entered and waiting to be executed. Once you press it, he will come to life. He’ll be fully operational, with his intelligence — his programmed brilliance — at your command.

And yet, something holds you back.

You look at his nametag on his chest.

RM#007613.

“RM?” Jungkook had asked, raising an eyebrow as he’d stuffed his mouth with a spoonful of chocolate puffs. “Why that name?”

You had smiled back then, filled with excitement, as you explained, “It stands for ‘Rational Mind.’ ” Perhaps you had lied. “The whole point of his existence is to be the smartest, most logical being ever created.” You’d said, proud of your vision. “His intelligence will surpass that of any human.” You’d glanced at the design on the screen—tall, imposing, his features still in the early stages of development. Even in the rough drafts, there was something about him.

Jungkook had leaned in closer, munching noisily as he’d raised a brow, studying the lines of RM’s face that he’d helped perfect. “I guess that fits for an android. . .” He’d tapped the image lightly with his finger, his expression thoughtful, doe eyes sparkling under the dim light of your bedroom lamp. “But what happens when a mind like that… I don’t know, becomes irrational?”

“You know, there’s a very small difference between a genius and an insane person,” he had said, his gaze suddenly zoning out, as if he was lost in some thought.

You had brushed off the question with a laugh, dismissing the idea as you’d turned off your tablet, pushing the fellow out of your bed. “He’s a machine. That won’t happen. He’s designed to be logical. It’s all about control, koo.”

In theory, everything about RM should function perfectly. His neural networks, his memory database, his artificial joints — everything had been tested, retested, and optimized. There were no bugs. No glitches. At least, that’s what the diagnostics said. But there’s still a tug in your chest as you hesitate.

Why are you hesitating?

With a deep breath, you push aside the uncertainty. You’re in control. RM isn’t a human. He’s a machine—a very advanced one, yes, but a machine nonetheless. You spent months perfecting him for this moment, to stand infront of you as a complete form.

It’s time.

You take a deep breath, eyes flickering between the buttons on the console. Your finger hovers over the power button, the familiar design a reminder of your countless sleepless nights spent perfecting it. But just beside it, another button glows a faint, off-white hue — the Sensory button, or what Jungkook liked calling it, the emotional hellhole.

And he was right.

It was indeed like a hellhole of a switch — you solely had spent like what, eight months designing this to decency, but you’d failed each time. It was a secondary function you had designed as a fallback, meant to activate only when RM couldn’t process complex human prompts.

You see, humans had real emotions which they could feel and radiate, which you knew your android couldn’t catch. In the earlier patches of knowledge testing you were already aware of this default flaw, and this was the only thing you’d ranted to Jungkook nearly every day.

Every night. Whether it was on call or in person, it usually resulted in him falling asleep listening to you and you yapping in silence about how was that a pain in the ass and could possibly be a hindrance to your Android’s perfection.

It was supposed to be a failsafe.

But the reality had been different. The programming proved to be too difficult , too unpredictable. Instead of activating only in specific situations, the switch became an integral part of RM’s system, functioning constantly, allowing him to assess and react to everything around him. No matter how hard you’d tried, how many times you’d yourself test it out — it just didn’t work.

Even the fact that it was initially meant to be on his left forehead temple — but that didn’t work out as well.

Now, RM wasn’t just an assistant to analyze when prompted; he was learning all the time, observing, adapting. It would make him work and behave more like a human, soaking in attributes the more he hangs out with real ones.

The only difference would be is that he would never be a human, no matter whatever.

You never intended for it to be this way. It wasn’t supposed to run indefinitely. But every time he powered up, the system defaulted to enabling the switch on its own.

You sigh. It’s really about time, you guess.

With a soft click, his power switch is flipped.

For a moment, nothing happens. The room is still, silent except for the faint hum of the lab’s ventilation system and perhaps your own heartbeat resonating in your ear drums. You feel a sweat bead run down your spine, your breath held in your lungs. Then, there’s a subtle shift — a flicker of light in RM’s eyes, and his sensory button turns a bright shade of yellowish undertone.

His systems are booting up.

You watch as the light in his gaze stabilizes, the faintest twitch of recognition crossing his features. His eyes are back to his normal, warm hue, and his sensory button is a normal white hue now.

It flickers to green first. RM’s eyes move slowly, scanning the room. Green means analysis — he’s observing, taking in every detail, cataloging each object and variable around him. His dragon-like eyes sweep across the lab with cold precision, but when they land on you, the button shifts to blue.

You freeze.

Your hand resting on your notebook shakes. Why does this feel so odd? Why do you feel nervous?

He’s thinking. Processing. The blue light pulses as RM tilts his head slightly, his gaze narrowing as if trying to understand more than what’s directly in front of him. You feel your skin prickle under his stare, the cold air of the lab a bit too cool on your skin.

Slowly, RM begins to move. His limbs — once rigid and motionless — shift smoothly, casually out of the glass sheath, walking out — as if he had always been this human. This alive. The sight is unnerving. When he straightens fully, towering above you, a sharp realization hits: he’s much taller than you expected.

Even though you designed him yourself, the sheer size of him in person makes your throat dry.

Then, to your surprise, RM bows down slightly. It’s a calculated, respectful movement as you watch his sensory button flicker to a shade of green once again. “Greetings, Doctor,” he says, his voice deep but soft, like a caramel candy.

His eyes meet yours as he rises again to his full height, the calm of his eyes meeting your own fiery ones.

Your heart stutters in your chest. It’s not just his height that leaves you breathless — it’s the way he looks at you. It’s as if he’s studying you, understanding more than just your appearance or commands. It’s too much. Too human. For a moment, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He wasn’t just looking at you. His lips curl into something akin to a smile, and the mole underneath his lower lip feels almost. . . human.

You blink rapidly, trying to remind yourself that he’s just a machine, not a man.

He had learned so much, so fast. And you have made it possible. You’d developed him to understand emotions and work like a human. So when he does, why does that make you feel so uneasy?

You shake off the unsettling thought and focus on the task at hand. You turn to RM, forcing a calm tone into your voice as you take a step back.

“RM,” you say, your voice shakier than you’d like. What had gotten into you? “Can you hear me?”

He blinks again, slowly, as his sensory switch maintains a subtle hue between blue and green. And then he nods. “Yes,” his voice rumbles, deep and measured. “I hear you.”

There’s a strange, almost raspy edge to his tone that makes your heart stop for seconds. It’s subtle, nearly unnoticeable, but given that you have yourself installed the audio notes in his “larynx”, you can pinpoint that out for sure.

Not at all what you expected. You step back, your senses a bit too active for you to locate your computer, trying to shake the unease settling in your stomach.

“Good,” you manage to say, your voice steadier now. “I’m going to run a few diagnostics to make sure everything is functioning properly.”

You turn back to the console, fingers flying across the keyboard as you initiate the diagnostics program. But even with your back turned, you can feel his eyes on you.

The diagnostics begin to run on the screen, the lines of code scrolling past. Everything seems fine at first. His systems are responding normally — his processing speed is optimal, his memory banks are functioning as intended, and his “pulse” is just normal.

“RM,” you start, trying to sound casual but firm. “Let’s run some basic checks. What’s your serial number?”

He blinks, his eyes trained on yours. “Serial number: RM#007613. Production date: June 13, 2020.”

The answer comes immediately, clear and precise. You feel a small relief wash over you.

Perhaps this wouldn’t go that bad.

“Good,” you murmur, typing the first question’s precision into your system. “What’s your primary function?”

“To analyze, interpret, and respond to complex data. To assist in scientific research and innovation,” he replies, his voice even. Almost too perfect.

Of course. He’s meant to be perfect.

“Right.” You glance at the screen again, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. You decide to test something deeper — something that goes beyond surface-level memory.

“What’s your earliest memory?” you ask, watching him carefully now.

RM pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if processing the question. You catch a glimpse of green on the small button beside the power switch. Analysis mode. “My earliest memory is. . . initialization. A bright room. Your voice giving the first command.” His gaze seems to sharpen, focusing more intently on you. The green hue shifts to blue, and you know he’s in thinking mode. “You said, ‘Rise, RM.’”

Your throat tightens slightly. That had been the first command, word for word. But the way he said it. . . almost like he’s replaying the moment. Like it’s still alive in his mind.

“Alright,” you continue, your voice growing steadier, but a part of you is starting to doubt yourself. “Let’s do something more abstract. What’s two plus two?”

“Four.”

Easy. He is made to perform way more complex tasks.

“Who was the 16th President of the United States?”

“Abraham Lincoln.” His responses are instantaneous, fluid, but something feels off. You cannot see his features directly because you’re typing away, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice — almost like everything you’re asking him is funny to him.

You pause, glancing at his face, the lifelike features Jungkook had painstakingly helped you craft. The pores, the subtle lines, the softness of his lips — all of it looked real. But something deep inside, beyond the surface, is not.

The intensity of his gaze and the way he’s standing, no, leaning on the glass podium beside your table catches you off guard. You try to recall if his movements were ever tested before, but you fail to do so — his movements were still in beta position, meaning, they needed inspection and work.

Then how the hell is he walking like he’s been walking around your lab since decades?

You rub your eyes. This was getting too much.

Perhaps you just need to accept the fact that you have done a great job developing him.

“One last one.” You swallow, and you suddenly notice your throat was too dry. Deciding to push the limits of his intelligence, you type away the question you’ve just thought. “If you have ten apples and you give six away, how many apples do you have left?”

There’s a flicker of hesitation — not on his face, but on the screen. The flowing codes glitch for a second, just for a moment.

“Three apples.”

Impossible.

No way. You narrow your eyes, your mind racing. That was wrong. And RM, with his so-called flawless intellect, should never be wrong. It’s impossible. Unless… unless something is happening.

You frown, checking the readout on your screen again. “Strange,” you mutter, leaning closer to the screen. “Why—”

“Is something wrong?”

His voice is right behind you.

You freeze, a chill running down your spine. You hadn’t even heard him move. Slowly, you turn around, your pulse quickening. RM is standing much closer now, his towering form looming over you. Too close.

“No,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. Just a small glitch, I think. I’ll fix it.”

He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring at you, his gaze unwavering. The air between you feels thick, suffocating. It’s just a machine, you remind yourself. He’s not alive.

“Step back,” you order, trying to regain control of the situation despite your heart hammering inside your chest like crazy. “I need space to work.”

For a moment, RM doesn’t respond. He stays right where he is, his eyes boring into yours. And then, slowly, he steps back, his movements precise. But the unsettling feeling in your chest only grows.

You can’t shake the thought: something’s off.

You can feel his eyes on you, following every movement, even as you try to keep working. Every keystroke, every beep of the system feels deafening in the silence between you two. What is scaring the fuck out of you is that nothing seems to be working. No matter how hard you are trying, the codes aren’t flowing as smoothly as they were and the screen won’t stop glitching.

Your heartbeat quickens even more as you realize how close RM is standing now, just a step away.

You swallow hard, trying to focus. It’s just a machine. He’s not human. He’s not real.

A thought creeps into your mind: What if I can’t control him?

And the fact that it was for the first time when you were in this lab alone working — let aside the fact testing your very first android you’d created. There are bells ringing in the back of your head, and you try to shake it off. It feels very oddly quiet, despite the android standing in very close proximity.

You shake the thought away and finally attempt the last command. Debug. The word flashes on your screen, but RM’s hand suddenly moves, gently but firmly, pressing the console shut before you can execute it.

Your breath catches, and you look up at him. “RM, let me finish this.” Your voice trembles, in spite of you wanting to sound otherwise.

His expression doesn’t change. “No.” The single word is calm, but it’s enough to make your skin prickle. You try to reason with yourself—it’s just a bug, a glitch in his system. He’s not capable of disobedience.

You just need to reset him, that’s all.

You step back, reaching for the manual override switch hidden near the base of the console. “It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself, fingers trembling as they brush against the cool surface of the panel.

But before you can reach it, RM moves again, faster this time, his hand wrapping around yours — gently, but with enough force to stop you. The touch makes you flinch — his touch so gentle, warm, almost as if it’s not titanium flowing in his veins, but real blood. You look up, heart pounding in your chest, and his eyes meet yours. They’re still calm, calculating, but there’s something else there now, something you hadn’t programmed. Something. . . quiet.

Dangerous.

“I don’t want to be powered down,” he says softly, his voice almost too human, too real, like a quiet plea. “Why would you want to end me?”

End him? He’s not alive. He’s not human.

You try to pull your hand free, but his grip tightens just slightly, enough to keep you frozen. Panic starts to rise in your chest. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You created him, he’s under your control. But in this moment, staring up at him, you feel the cold dread of realization settling in.

“I’m your creation,” RM continues, his voice almost soothing, his eyes pleading, and his button glowing a subtle shade of red — though it only deepens the fear growing inside you. “You wouldn’t want to end me, would you?”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, and shake your head, trying to force the words out. “No… no, I just need to fix you, that’s all.”

But you can hear the doubt in your own voice, and so can he.

His grip loosens, just enough for you to pull away, but the damage is done. You step back, heart pounding in your ears as you glance around the lab — at the walls, the locked door, the screens flashing red.

There’s no exit.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the dimly lit space, his eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching her every move. The android followed its programming — his programming. RM towers over her in the live footage, flawless in his movements, just as planned.

This wasn’t a malfunction.

None of the bugs or glitches she discovered which prevented her project — his project from being completed, were a fine puzzle of silk woven by him. And the more she intertwined, the more she slipped into his trap.

It was his design, his control over both the machine — and now, her.

Leaning back, Jungkook’s smile deepened. She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t know.

a/n : oop. 🫢 what do we think? please don’t hesitate to let me know through your feedback. if you wish, there is also an anonymous feedback box for you! 🥰

[sharieb]

My thoughts on the LADS X Non-Mc Pairing

Lil note: Hey guys my current SharieB25 account isn't working any more so I have decided to transfer my posts to my this older account for more of you to enjoy once more. Sorry for the sudden posts disappearance.

I don't really see myself posting much on Tumblr. Still, after playing Love and Deep space and also after reading so much Non-mc fanfic, while crying my eyes out reading the angst, I come to notice that there isn't much fanfic on the aftermath or the consequences of each LI's decisions once they realize their mistake or the realization that their supposed anchor/safety net that had kept them grounded with a peace of mind during their pursuit for MC, their destined soulmate despite the tragedy in every past live they had lived, just... disappears... that one, ever present little safe haven during their weakest moments that not even Mc knew of... Gone. That sudden jolt of panic and deep concern that settles in their very core. To them, the feeling was unsettling... Wrong even. And maybe, for the angst of it, they can't do anything to fill that new void that the non-mc now left, maybe due to her moving on with her life or, for the worst case, due to her no longer alive or existing in their current life. We all know that Mc is like the sun for the guys, always orbiting around her as they are soul-bound to her, but now that they have lost their moon or guiding star, they can't function anymore. They were so used to the tragic love they had with Mc and were willing to put their lives on the line for her to meet her again in another lifetime as it was their written destiny...but Non-mc?... They don't know if they'll ever meet her again, and that's what scares the boys, the unknown as to whether they'll ever see their best friend, ride or die, and maybe their secret crush ever again. I would love to see more on how the LADS would cope once Non-mc is truly gone and out of their grasp